Britain's Nightmare
by annabethchase98
Summary: In his dreamland, the world around him was in shambles. Most nights, he was still an insomniac. When he did sleep, it wasn't very restful. Every thought, every reminder of America was like he was being stabbed in the chest over and over and over again. Would the pain ever stop?... M FOR DRINKING AND LANGUAGE


"America… America… Why…. America, why?..." England groaned in his sleep. He didn't even realize what he was saying, which was the worst part of this.

It's been two hundred years since the Revolutionary War when America gained his freedom.

So why can't the nation let go of his wheat haired little brother?

In his dreamland, the world around him was in shambles. Most nights, he was still an insomniac. When he did sleep, it wasn't very restful. Every thought, every reminder of America was like he was being stabbed in the chest over and over and over again. Would the pain ever stop?...

When he dreamt, he remembered every moment of the mistakes he made that caused him to lose his little brother.

America had obviously moved on…. So why couldn't he?

He woke with a scream. This dream, this god awful dream, had turned out much worse than normal. He had… no, he couldn't even bring himself to remember it.

He rushed out of his bed, eager to escape the land of dreams and enter reality where everything was as normal is it could possibly be. Still dressed in only his underwear, he left his room, headed straight for his hand crafted, old fashioned scotch cabinet in his second-floor spare bedroom. He kept it there for emergencies such as this.

"America…" he muttered, pouring himself a glass and filling it to the brim with the amber colored liquid. "Why? Why can't I let go of you?" He sat on the black leather couch, trying to lose himself in the burn of the alcohol forcing its way down his throat.

He examined the room. He'd never admit this to anyone, but he spent most of his time in this room, and when people had to stay at his house for whatever reason, he never let them see this room.

In it, he had a suit that he never had the chance to give America. He had the first and last photographs that the two nations took together when they were happy. _Happy… _Britain thought to himself. _What I wouldn't give to have that again…_

He downed half his glass and topped it off again, starting to lose the ability to think clearly. Soon enough, he wouldn't remember the dream… That was his goal.

_Bloody hell, _he growled to himself after a couple drinks of his second glass. _There's a World Meeting tomorrow… I'll have to see America… Most likely I'll be hung-over. Just bloody great. Damn wankers will never let me live this down._ He debated stopping the drinking then, but the lure of the alcohol made him forget his worries. He downed his second glass and poured a third.

In this drunken state, he could admit to himself what he would never be able to sober: America. America was the cause of everything. Of his heartbreak, his consistent drinking, his insomniac tendencies; in his drunken state, England could admit his true feelings.

He starred around the room, his eyes lingering on all the memories he wished he could be living in. Four glasses of scotch. Five glasses. Six.

When his vision was blurry after his seventh glass, and his emerald eyes seemed hazy with alcohol, the doorbell rang.

"WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS HERE AT-" hiccup "-3 IN THE MORNING!" England, with his filled eighth glass in his hand, stumbled out of the room, falling down the stairs with a loud bang and lots of swearing.

"Iggy?!" The person at the door yelled when he heard, trying to get into the house.

England dropped his glass and it shattered on the floor.

"America…?" he whispered to himself. _I can't let him see me like this… I can't let my brother see me drunk…_

England ran up the stairs as best as he could in his drunken state. He hid in the bathroom and locked the door just as America got the front door open.

"IGGY?!" He yelled throughout the house. _God, America, _he thought to himself. He wanted to unlock the door and run into the blonde's arms. But he couldn't. And it hurt; the fear of rejection, the fear the America still hated him.

.oOo.

America wandered through England's house.

When he walked in, the first the he noticed was the stench. The smell of scotch tainted the air.

The second thing was the shattered glass on the ground.

"How many glasses have you had, England?" he sighed, avoiding the tiny shards of glass, he made his way upstairs.

The first room he saw, the door was barely open. The dim light was shining through the cracks around the door, and America was just going to walk past it when two things caught his attention: a picture of him, and a stronger smell of scotch.

"England?" he asked, but no reply came. He walked into the room and froze when he saw what was inside.

Walking around, but not touching a thing, he saw things he remembered: some photographs, a little toy gun, an unfinished set of toys England had promised to build him that he never got to complete before America grew up. There were also things he didn't recognize: like the suit on display in the corner, too small for both he and Britain. He noticed the large wooden scotch cabinet next to the leather couch. Leaving the room as if he'd never been in there, he went back downstairs, where he found England's bookshelf full of notebooks.

He picked a random one off the shelf, and on the front cover, was a tiny hand drawn American flag.

He took it and left, hoping Britain would be okay.

He left England's home as fast as he could, the notebook still in his hand. He planned on reading what Iggy had written about him, whether the nation wanted him to or not.

When he arrived at his home, and rushed in to his room, completely avoiding Canada who had just woken up.

"Gotta read… Gotta read…" Canada heard him muttering.

Closing and locking his bedroom door, he collapsed on his American-flag-covered-bed. On the wall across from his bed, he had a giant flag pinned up, and right next to it, he had the only picture he owned with him and England together.

He laid on his stomach, resting the notebook on his pillow. "Now then, Iggy," he whispered to himself. "What have you written about me?"

_The last World Meeting was a bore. _America could instantly tell this was a fiction work, England was never bored at World Meetings. In fact, he was typically the first to arrive, the last to leave, and always the grouchiest.

_The last World Meeting was a bore. Nothing had happened, and it was unusually silent without that frog France. (Though, thank God he wasn't there, if saw what had happened I would never live it down.) America led the meeting, and for once everything went smoothly… I always knew he was a hero._

_The way his wheat coloured hair stuck up like a child unable to do his own hair, and how his blue eyes sparkle whenever I see him… America… He'll never feel the same way, I know it… So why can't I let go?_

_Bloody hell, if the country even knew what I was thinking… He'd laugh at me and he'd never talk to me again. I can't risk that, now, can I?_

_After the meeting, I wandered the halls a bit. I had nothing better to do anyway. Not looking anywhere in particular, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye… an iPod, with an American flag case. _

"_Could he be any more obvious?" I said to myself, picking it up. I was curious, so I opened it up. Bloody idiot didn't even have a password. The first thing that came up when I opened it was a playlist titled 'Artie,' the annoying name he calls me._

"_Could this mean…? No, it's probably just songs he listens to when I annoy or piss him off."_

_I scrolled through the list. The Beatles and the Monkees were at the top: bands from my country._

_I was wrong in my assumption… These were all old love songs, not annoying rock ones…_

"_So… could this… could this mean…? No, England, stop getting your hopes up," I scolded myself. "He probably just likes the songs. That's all."_

"_DUDE, ARTIE!" A voice called down the hall._

_I scrambled to put the iPod back where he found it, since he was sure that's what America was looking for. Of course, I only had time to put it in my pocket._

"_Artie," America repeated when he was closer. "Dude, have you seen my iPod? I think I lost it… You gotta help me!"_

"…_here," I said, pulling it out and giving it to him. "I was just about to go to your house and give it to you. I just found it."_

"_Thanks du- wait… Did you open it?"_

"_No, why would you assume such a thing you bloody wanker?!" I yelled, hoping that would cover the slow blush creeping onto my face._

"_Alright, you don't have to yell, I was just asking."_

_It was silent for a while; too silent with America around… Why hadn't he left yet? OH, right, I still had to give him his iPod…_

_But I wanted another look at that playlist._

_I clenched my jaw, and opened the iPod with America standing right there._

"_Engla-!" he started to yell in protest. I cut him off by playing a random song from the list. It just happened to be a love song…_

"_America?" I asked him. "Can you…explain this?"_

_He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again._

"_Yes," he whispered, taking a step closer. He leaned in…_

"_It's true then-"_

The story cut off. The ink was smudged with an amber liquid. The whole notebook, especially these few pages, reeked of scotch.

"England…?" America said softly. "Your story is cut off… Let's give it a happy ending." The country smiled and closed the notebook. He pulled out his iPod and set it to his Iggy playlist. He laughed. "England was right. I do have a playlist full of love songs about him, but it's not called Artie."

**.oOo.**

England was obviously hung over the next day at the World Meeting. Germany was the first to notice, but, being Germany, he completely understood and said nothing.

England took his seat next to the dick-sucking frog, who immediately noticed the stench of scotch coming from the Brit.

"Ohonononono…" the French laughed/giggled/however you would described that weird thing. "Someone was up all night drunk. Are you in love, mon cher?"

"Shut up, you bloody damn wanker."

"Ohononono, I hear no denials!"

"I said: shut up!" He already had a massive headache from drinking, and the damn frog wasn't helping.

France was indeed forced to shut up by the meeting 'starting,' also known as Germany standing up and yelling at everyone, but the French wasn't done with England yet.

"So, who is the lucky woman?" he persisted.

"I said shut up!"

"Oh? So it is a man?" France smirked. He could get England to admit his true feelings, even if no one else could.

"I-I-I! Bloody g-g-it!"

"Ha! It is a man! You stuttered on your insult!"

England sat there: his mouth open, defeated. "Yes," he muttered quietly.

"Ah! He admits it!"

"Now, enough! My head was already killing me…"

"Well, that's what you get for drinking instead of admitting your true feelings."

"Bloody wanker."

"You'll be thankful soon enough."

"And if I'm not?"

"Trust me. You will be."

England sighed. "Maybe one day…" He looked up, and, across the table, his emerald eyes met America's sapphire ones. America smiled and gave England a thumbs up, and England looked back down.

"He'll never understand, or want to be more than friends…" he told France. "Why am I even confessing all of this to you?"

"Because you know I'll understand, and you want to tell someone. Love hurts." England was silent. "And," France added, "I'm sure he will understand. Even if he doesn't at first, he will eventually."

After the meeting, England stood up, planning to talk to America.

Who knew that France could actually give useful love advice?

But, before England had the chance to catch him, America bolted out the door. England sighed and headed for the kitchen, planning the snag a cup of tea before he left.

He searched the cupboards, and he finally found the box of Earl Grey he kept in them.

"That's strange," he muttered to himself. "It's heavier than normal."

When he opened it, he was greeted by an iPod touch, with a beautiful image of an American flag on the old, worn case. "America…" he whispered softly. While his water was boiling, he decided to inspect it a little further.

He turned it over, and some cracks in the glass of the touch screen revealed themselves. He chuckled, imagining America's swearing face when he dropped it and realized it was cracked. He turned it on and unlocked it, the password was simple enough: 1776… The year.

_Had he done that on purpose, in case it was me trying to get into it? _England thought briefly. He shoved the thought aside, however, when a playlist came up… One titled 'Britain.'

Why did he recognize this scenario?

He scrolled through it, ignoring his screaming water kettle for once.

I Want to Hold Your Hand… All My Loving… When I'm Sixty Four… Yesterday… Shades of Grey… I'm a Believer… Daydream Believer…

These were…love songs… from Britain…

England almost dropped the iPod out of shock. "Th-this can't mean what I think it does," he said to himself. "He probably listens to them to make some girl swoon or something…"

"DUDE, IGGY!" England's eyes widened and his quickly put the iPod in his pocket, trying to make his tea and seem casual about it.

"Dude, Britain," America repeated when he got to England. "Have you seen my iPod? I can't find it anywhere… I could've sworn I left it in here."

"Nope, haven't seen it!" England replied hastily. _If he leaves, then I can have another look at the playlist…_ he thought.

"Are you sure?... Man, I can't believe I lost it… and after my computer broke… I don't have any music to listen to…"

If America was trying to make England feel guilty, then it was working.

"…fine," the older nation muttered, pulling the iPod out of his pocket. But, before he gave it to America, he opened it again, and starting scrolling through the playlist again. "What… why do you have this, America?" When England looked back up at him, he was smiling softly.

"Because they make me think of you," America said simply. "Why else?"

If England had been holding a tea cup, he would've dropped it. He stared at America, as a tiny blush creeped onto his face. "You…you meant that?"

"Of course I did…" America whispered, taking a tiny, hesitant step towards England. Would he run away? America hoped he wouldn't.

"America… I…" England stuttered. He'd never been any good at saying how he felt. "I love you," he managed to get out.

The younger nation smiled. "Hey, Iggy… Are you okay? Last night, when I came over… the glass on the floor… your house… It doesn't seem like you… Why were you drinking so much?..."

"I.. I…" he closed his eyes, as if it were painful to speak about. "I had a nightmare. I… back in 1776… When you… you know… Instead of you winning… I… I had killed you… But not after I did horrible things… I… I had to get it out of my head…"

America's eyes widened a bit in shock, and he quickly grabbed England and pulled him into a tight hug. "It's okay," he told him. "I know you'd never hurt me on purpose. Remember the one time when I was little, and I cut myself on a piece of glass from a bottle you didn't realize had broken? After that, you never brought another glass bottle into the house. There still aren't any."

England smiled a little at the memory. "Yeah," he whispered, "yeah, I remember. Now, where's my damn tea?" He pulled away and started pouring himself a cup of tea. America laughed.

"What is it that's so funny?"

"You," he answered. "You go from confusing your love and crying one minute, to swearing and wanting tea the next!"

"Yes, well, don't you know me? I'm used to sadness and pain and I know you won't be hurt anytime soon, so I have no need to worry. And, now, I'm willing to bet I won't be staying up drinking all night long for a while…"

"That's why…"

"Why what?"

America smirked a little bit and pulled England's notebook out of his bag. "That's why the story was incomplete. You were drunk when you wrote it."

"YOU TOOK MY NOTEBOOK?! YOU BLOODY WANKER, GIVE IT BACK!" America laughed and gave it back.

After almost five minutes of silence afterwards, America was the first to speak up.

"So… What now? Are we… what are we? Is this wrong, I mean, we are brothers…"

England chuckled. "We were never related, idiot. I just raised you till… you didn't need me anymore."

"It still hurts you, doesn't it?"

"Every time I hear something about it or see you… Have you ever, once, seen me on July Fourth?"

"…no, I haven't."

"That's because it's the day I stay inside and drink the most."

"Iggy…"

"It's fine, America," the nation said softly. "In a way, I deserved it."

"No. No one deserves what I did, and especially not you. Iggy, if you had just said something sooner…"

"It's over now, America. Now, to answer your question… what do you want us to be?"

**.oOo.**

**Enter: Friends yelling at me about its corny-ness. Hehe, they get the non-corny version though, sorry guys! Hope you enjoyed my longest story yet, and my first USUK!**


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